Let Go
by PaintedinAllColors
Summary: Moriarty was dead. John had no enemies. Sherlock Holmes screamed, wishing he was wrong for the first time of his life. (Implied relationship)


This is utter shit. Ugh. My brain decided "Heyy, let's write a Sherlock oneshot!" And I wanted to make it good but this utter shit came out instead. I'll be back to fix this and make it better. I hope. 

What a way to return from a long-ass hiatus. 

Cheers. 

~Painted-chan

* * *

The same, old flat. The same wallpaper, ridden with bullet-holes, the same couch where he'd lie down for hours or even days, lost in the mechanisms of his own mind. The entire apartment was like a testament to Sherlock's presence, a memory preserved against the onslaught of time. He smiled, slim fingers tracing over the familiar books-all of which he'd read and remembered. But this smile was different; not false, dripping with condescension, not genuine, mirth and sheer contentment bubbling over. It was sad, nostalgic, bitter, as he looked at the home he'd lost and let go.

John missed him, obviously, since everything was as he'd left it two years ago. Still cleaned-good old Mrs. Hudson, he thought fondly, remembering how she'd sobbed at his funeral. Closed casket, of course. John missed him, hadn't moved on, was still overcome with grief. Sherlock Holmes' heart beat faster in his chest at the thought, wrenching and flinching away from the damage he knew he'd dealt to his best friend. His only friend that mattered. He reminded himself to be gentle, to break it to him easily as he strode through the all-too familiar hallway, footsteps echoing eerily through the flat. It wasn't empty, he told himself. John would still be here, clinging on to the hope that Sherlock was still alive, because his John would never give up on him. His John would understand completely that it was all necessary, all for his protection-that no, it wasn't Sherlock's fault, and that letting go had hurt Sherlock more than his supposed fall would have.

The alternative thought his whirring mind provided was too much to bear. Two years was a long time. Mycroft had said-NO. Sherlock didn't believe it-wouldn't believe it. His brother had to be lying, after all, it was what he did for a living, weaving his web of razor sharp words to snare the unsuspecting. Mycroft had a thick web studded with knives enshrouding his heart. Sherlock had walls upon walls upon walls guarding a pathetic, dark, cowardly thing wrapped in barbed wire. But Sherlock also had John, also had a key to open his heart, to tear off the barbed wire and treat the trembling, vulnerable mess left behind, covered with half-healed hurts and lacerations.

Kisses and soothing words, whispers of lovely nothings muttered in a husky strained voice, fingers in his hair tugging gently, all whisking the pain away. Tender touches Sherlock had realized he didn't need to flinch away from, and affection Sherlock hadn't realized he'd needed until then. And then Moriarty came, and Moriarty saw and understood immediately, and Sherlock had to protect the only warmth in his life. But Moriarty is dead now, he reminded himself. Moriarty is dead and John will be here, just like always. He'll understand that I did it to protect him, and everything will go back to the way it was before.

"John?" the word left his lips for the first time in two years. His name was like the sweet adrenaline of nicotine, lethargic and heavy like alcohol, laced with thrill like cocaine.

_"Sherlock?" he heard in reply, a groggy voice. John was undoubtedly brushing the vestigial drowsiness from his eyes. "What on earth are you doing?"_

_"Nothing," Sherlock replied, smiling to himself. Sentiment was useless. But this sentiment, this completion and understanding that it offered-this was the exception to his rule. John was the exception to his rule. _

_"Come on, then, I'm already up," John groaned. "You have to want something."_

_Something indeed, a sly voice inside him spoke. Sherlock smirked. "So you say."_

_"You're the one who does the deducing around here," his tone was curt, but John was smiling to himself. _

_"True," Sherlock moved closer, instinctively. "I'm cold. The flat is too cold." John was warm against his fingers, scorching compared to the ice in Sherlock. _

_"We'll talk to Mrs. Hudson about it tomorrow," John replied, flinching away. "Turn off the light. Just because you don't sleep doesn't mean I don't."_

_"Fine," he sighed, content in the warmth exuded by his partner. The bed was soft, comfortable, infinitely more so than his own. It smelled like John. _

Looming silence greeted him instead. Cold, harsh silence, unlike the warm glow of John's voice, so different from the memory that swept him up. He was so close-so close to having the real thing again, after two whole years of isolation and missing him and worry. So close to hearing John's voice, so close to feeling him again, kissing him again. But the silence persisted, a thick blanket over the entire flat.

Sleeping, John has to be sleeping, right? He just didn't wake up at the sound of my voice. Because there's no way he isn't here, no way he moved on. Worlds don't just suddenly vanish and appear someone else.

"John?" he repeated, louder this time. His tone was even, hiding the sharp knives of worry twisting into his stomach. He was here, the emotional part of Sherlock's brain, the part he usually hid so well, insisted. But the rational part, the part that saw and understood and deduced everything around him-that part knew he wasn't. That John wasn't sleeping in his room, curled into the mattress, snoring the day's burdens away. The realization and denial clashed in his mind-John couldn't have moved on, not without him. There was no way, but Sherlock knew that he had to. Otherwise he would be here, repeating the same actions they'd carried out together, weighed down by the void of his disappearance.

And then he realized three things. The first being that John would not move on without him, not his John, and the second being that today was the anniversary. He had been gone for exactly two years on this day. The third was that something gleamed wetly on the floor, a liquid darkness barely visible in the near darkness of the musty room. The scent hit him then, putrid and rotting, and the only thing he could think was NO NO NO as the only sound he could hear was a blood-curdling scream, vaguely through the blood roaring in his ears. This wasn't real. Not real. Moriarty was dead, dead and gone, his body crushed six feet under. He'd seen him die with that sick, twisted gleam in his eyes, seen the blood soak into the hospital roof. Moriarty hadn't done this, and neither had the empire he'd presided over.

It wasn't Moriarty.

John had no enemies.

Sherlock kept on screaming, clutching at the body of his best friend, devoid of all the warmth and life he had that Sherlock lacked. The blood was cold, slick, slimy, not John, this couldn't be John even though everything was telling him that it was.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes wished he was wrong, standing alone in an empty flat, surrounded by the painful memories of a life he had let go.


End file.
